Shadow of God

by Anthony Goodman

  “What losses, then?”

  “Many, Sire. I would say at least two hundred killed in these sorties and night raids.”

  “Two hundred! And not a single knight slain?”

  “No, my lord. And…”

  “And?”

  “And we have word that three of my Janissaries are missing.”

  “Deserters?”

  “Oh, no, my Lord. These were fine young soldiers, and they would gladly have died in your service. No, if they are missing, I can only assume they were killed in ambush. They were off duty at the market and never returned.”

  “And their bodies?”

  “Not yet found, my Lord.”

  “Then surely, they are dead. Or worse, they might be captured. May Allah have pity on them.” Suleiman rubbed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his hawk-like nose. Ibrahim moved to his side and whispered in his ear. Suleiman nodded. He walked to a divan and sat down. He appeared to the Aghas weary and depressed. The siege had barely begun.

  The sea was roiled with white foam as the northwesterly winds of August played upon the surface of the Mediterranean. The winds were steady, the sky clear. July and August were the rainless months of sun and fair breezes. For the navy, it was the time of the Bel Tempo, the good weather. The winds scoured the air clean. The visibility was limited only by the height of the vantage point or eyesight.

  Cortoglu stood by the helm of his galley and surveyed the sea. This famous pirate manned the Sultan’s fleet, blockading the island to interdict any resupply the knights might try to achieve. Though generally despised by the Turks for his cruelty, his presence freed up other of the Sultan’s officers for more vital duties.

  Cortoglu’s fleet rowed north and then turned and ran south before the wind, plying the waters just out of range of the guns at Fort St. Nicholas, blockading the two ports. His orders were to board and destroy any ships attempting to depart or land at Rhodes. Suleiman wanted no reinforcements of either knights or provisions to reach the island.

  Cortoglu was dressed in his own non-military uniform, baggy pants and high leather boots. He was a big man, and obese. His skin was dark and heavily wrinkled from years of exposure to the sun and the sea. He wore a long, black mustache and a beard. His shirt was open-necked, and he wore no hat. His sword was the curved scimitar of the Ottomans, and he carried a jeweled dirk in his belt; a gift of war from the Sultan.

  From the raised afterdeck of his flagship, Cortoglu’s eyes continuously scanned from the horizon to the shore. Hour after hour, he patrolled his beat. Heading north into the wind, he made use of his oars. Coming about and heading south, he hoisted his lateen sails while the oarsmen rested. He shouted the occasional order to his crew to correct their heading or to change the cadence of the oars; otherwise he spent his days in brooding silence, for the knights had given him little to do. He sorely wanted them to come out upon the sea and fight.

  Below decks, the slaves were chained to their posts. They sat naked, six to a rough hewn wooden bench less than four feet wide. In the Muslim ships, nearly all the oarsmen were slaves, chained to their places by one ankle. They rowed with one foot on the ground board and the other pushing against the bench in front of them. Sometimes they had wool padding covered in burlap as seats. Most of the time the benches were bare. The wood was darkened with the deep penetration of the blood of the many oarsmen who had labored there over the years.

  Cortoglu stood next to the helm at the afterdeck, his first officer at his side. As he turned back into the wind, he gave the command to row. The officer signaled the slave masters below with the silver whistle chained around his neck. Two officers below decks gave the commands to the oarsmen, and the cadence began again. Slowly the galley accelerated as the oars dipped in unison. The slaves strained at the massive oar-looms, pushing with one leg against the benches and pulling with both arms on the rough oars. The handles were dark with the sweat and blood of the slaves; the bilges stank from the excrement that sloshed about with each surge of the galley. The holds were never cleaned or washed while at sea, and the filth could accumulate for months. The slaves, too, never washed, nor were they ever allowed to leave their benches or their oars. The width of the rowing bench was their world until they died in the service of the Sultan.

  The cadence increased as the galley picked up speed and the water resistance lessened. Soon they were cruising at an easy three knots. In battle, when rowing with the wind at their backs and the sails raised, Cortoglu’s galleys could, for a time, make six knots.

  As they approached the northernmost end of their patrol, word came up to the helm that two slaves had fallen unconscious over their oars. Cortoglu ordered them whipped back to work. The slave master uncoiled his long, leather whip and began to beat the two men across their backs. After ten or more lashes, there was still no movement. The second-in-command below decks put a hand on the slave master’s arm and stopped the whipping. He pointed to the lash marks on the backs of the two men. There was no bleeding. The slave master bent down and pulled the oarsman’s head backwards by he hair. He looked into the glazed eyes and saw no moisture. He unchained all the men at the bench, and shipped the large oar to get it out of the way of the others. Then he ordered the two living slaves to drag out the naked bodies of the dead men. They were hauled up on deck and, without any delay, thrown overboard into the sea. Two more slaves were released from a locked holding room and brought to replace the dead men at the oars.

  As the day grew hotter, two reserve slaves were sent aft to fetch provisions. With the boat heading south under sail and the oars at rest, the two slaves walked among the oarsmen and placed winesoaked bread into their mouths. The bread would provide just enough nourishment to keep them alive, while the wine would dull some of their pain.

  Virtually all of the slaves in the Muslim galleys were captured Christians. Because the Muslim galleys were manned solely by captive slaves, there was the occasional revolt at sea. During close engagements with hand-to-hand fighting, slaves would seize the opportunity to disrupt the galley. They would refuse to row, despite the lashes of the whip. Though chained to the deck to prevent real uprisings, they could seriously hamper the mobility of the galley in critical moments. When the galleys were in port, and the ships undergoing refitting, it was necessary to keep the slaves in specially built prisons to prevent rebellions and escapes.

  In contrast, though the Christian galleys had some slaves on board, most of their oarsmen were buonavoglie, inmates of debtor’s prison who were working off their debts. These buonavoglie could be distinguished from the slaves by their haircuts, which were shaved on both sides, leaving only a ridge on top running from back to front. The men were working their way back to freedom, and so rowing crews of the knights were far more reliable in battle.

  Having restocked his galley with oarsmen, Cortoglu resumed his patrol. Light was fading as he moved slowly closer to shore. The batteries at Fort St. Nicholas demarcated Cortoglu’s patrol zone. If he strayed within range of the cannon, his galleys could be sunk with a single shot.

  As his small fleet turned to run south before the wind again, unseen to Cortoglu, a shadow appeared on the northern horizon. The sky grew slowly darker as the shadow closed upon the island, hidden in the decreasing light. Cortoglu’s galleys plied their way south, watching for ships trying to leave the ports. They paid little attention to the waters abaft their beam.

  Antonio Bosio’s galley continued to move south toward the Galley Port. His galley was the pride of the Order’s fleet. Over one hundred twenty-five feet long, and only eighteen feet wide, it was sleek and low and fast. The prow overhung the bow by fifteen feet, and held a rambade, a boarding platform from which the knights could board the enemy after ramming and grappling. There was space for two small cannon to be mounted there as well. Three masts supported huge lateen sails to assist the boat when running before the wind. The ship was propelled by twenty-six oars on each side, four to six men to each oar.

  In battle, the knights ma
de use of Greek Fire: a mixture of salt peter, pulverized sulfur, resin, ammonium, turpentine, and pitch. Paradoxically, the mixture was ignited by applying water, which set off a chemical chain reaction that set the Greek Fire ablaze and could be directed from the nozzles of copper tubes like flame throwers. Once ignited, the fires were exceedingly difficult to extinguish. The flames would spatter and stick to the bodies of those unfortunate enough to get in its path. But, the knights feared a backflash that might set their own ships afire. So, on the galleys, they devised small clay-pot hand grenades. They were made of the same chemicals as the Greek Fire, and were covered in paper with sulfur-dipped fuses. The knights could effectively throw them a distance of twenty yards.

  Bosio saw the small Turkish guard fleet. He recognized Cortoglu’s galley, for he had slipped past the corsair on his way out of Rhodes on his mission. The Grand Master had sent Bosio to Naples and Rome to appeal for men, supplies, and money. Now Bosio was on his way home. He watched intently as his galley closed upon the slower Turkish craft. He stood next to his helmsman, with twenty knights in full battle gear arrayed around him. They spoke in whispers, for they had the wind at their backs, and the sound could carry a long way over the water. The oars were shipped for the moment, but the men were ready at their benches.

  “I cannot slip back into the port without letting that son-of-a-whore know we have broken his blockade,” Bosio said to his helmsman. “Not only once, but twice! Listen, we will continue our advance to the port. If Cortoglu does not see us in this darkness, we’ll creep up on his stern and attack. Then we’ll wheel to the right and row into the port.” He turned to his captain. “Be ready with the signal flares. I want the chain and boom across the harbor withdrawn in time for us to slip in, and closed immediately behind us. Be sure of your signals. I don’t want the batteries at Fort St. Nicholas to mistake us for the Turks.”

  Bosio turned to one of his lieutenants. “You, Guy, take some knights to the rambade. We’ll have a gift for Cortoglu.” Bosio pointed to the equipment on the deck and whispered further orders.

  The knights took their stations. Bosio stayed with the helmsman. Leaning on the long center-pole tiller, the helmsman bore down upon the Turkish galleys. The wind slowed as it usually did at night. The seas became calmer, and the swells decreased. Cortoglu’s ships gradually settled into the sea. The corsair did not start his oars, for he was in no hurry to come about and make the northerly run just yet. He wanted to clear well beyond both ports now that the darkness might be hiding blockade runners. He longed for action, and had been frustrated by the knights’ unwillingness to engage him.

  “These knights are cowards and pigs. They don’t fight and they don’t wash,” he had complained to the Reis, Pilaq Mustapha Pasha. “But, their time will come!”

  As Bosio’s galley passed the northern tip of the Galley Port, he gave the command. The oars dropped into the water, and the cadence began. He ordered his sails splayed to both sides, and goose-winged his galley before the wind. With both oars and sails at full power he closed rapidly upon the Turkish galleys. He ignored the other ships, and closed upon Cortoglu alone, whose silhouette he could now see standing in the stern. When the noise of his oars alerted the Turks, there was a scramble to assemble. But, communication between galleys was primitive and it took some time for the rest of Cortoglu’s little fleet to get organized. Before the Turkish galleys realized they were under attack—for who would think that a single ship with a handful of knights would attack such a superior force—Bosio closed on Cortoglu and caught him. The old corsair had no time to bring his ship around into ramming position.

  Bosio’s galley aimed itself perpendicularly toward the stern post, from which Cortoglu commanded. Cortoglu ordered his men to brace for the coming impact. Just as the knights were about to ram, the Turks saw dozens of flaming orange streaks arcing through the air toward their ship.

  “Shields!” shouted Cortoglu to his men, for he thought they were under attack by a barrage of flaming arrows. Only too late did he discover that he had been hit with the awful Greek Fire. The clay pots burst all over his deck. A few of his men had caught the pots against their small leather shields and were covered in liquid flame. The fires burned in small circles all over the Turkish galley. Men ran about trying to extinguish the flames. Sails caught fire, and many of the sailors ran about the decks, their clothes burning. The night wind carried the screams of the burning men to the other galleys. The smell of charred flesh followed quickly behind.

  Cortoglu called for his armed soldiers to assemble to repel the boarders. But, as the ships closed, the sky became filled with hundreds of arrows. They rained down upon the Turks who were trying to put out the fires. Fifty of his men fell to the deck with arrow wounds. A handful died on the spot, a chance arrow piercing the heart or the throat. Cortoglu drew this sword and again prepared his men to repel boarding.

  Just as they braced for the inevitable ramming, Bosio’s galley jibed its starboard sail and turned sharply away toward land. The starboard oars paused for five strokes while the port oars dug in with extra power at the command of the officer below decks. In one minute, the galley was on a broad reach and under full oar power heading for the Galley Port. Cortoglu’s galley was dead in the water, its slaves waiting at their oars, hoping to be liberated by the knights.

  By the time the Turkish galley was cleared again for action and the slaves whipped into submission, Bosio had slipped into the Galley Port and the chain booms were being drawn closed once more. Bosio and his men cheered at their small success, and the battery at Fort St. Nicholas sent a cannon salvo in the direction of Cortoglu’s ships to bid them goodnight.

  When the galley pulled alongside the stone wharf, Bosio commended his knights and seamen, then quickly hurried ashore to bring the news to the Grand Master. If only, he thought, my news from Rome were as good as our little skirmish here tonight.

  He shook his head and hurried up to the city and into the Street of the Knights.

  The Grand Master sat at his long oak table and listened quietly to the report of his inquisitors. “The older of the Janissaries gave us nothing, my Lord. Nothing but a good deal of spittle in our faces at the beginning. It seemed for a while that he would have much to tell us, for at first he took the rack with a great deal of screaming and crying out. I thought, surely he will break down. But, after a little while, he became completely calm. His screams and cries stropped, and he only stared at the ceiling. Then he was dead. He never uttered a word.”

  “Nothing?” Philippe said. “Nothing?”

  “No, my Lord. Nothing. Pas un mot.” Not a word.

  “And the other?”

  “That was a different story. It took very little to have him babbling away. He listened to the screams of his colleague, and I think he assumed that we already knew the whole battle plan anyway. So, when he saw us carry out the dead body of his friend, he just gave up and began talking. It was hard to get him to stop. Of course, he had only limited knowledge. He is but a foot soldier with no rank. But, we learned some important things.”

  “Such as?”

  “To begin with, you were quite correct in your assessment. They plan to hammer at the walls and bastions with cannon fire. But, the mortars and incendiaries hurled into the city are only for demoralization of the people. They will concentrate the attack on the walls by mining. They plan to attack the weakest appearing of the bastions first, and then blast holes big enough to send in large forces of foot soldiers. They will try to overpower us with sheer numbers.”

  “Where will they concentrate the first of the mining?”

  “Of that he said nothing we didn’t already know. They consider the walls of Aragon, England, and Provence to be the weakest points in our defense. Mainly Aragon. As we have seen, they are erecting a great earthworks opposite the Tower of Aragon, and will try to mount their cannon on top. From there, they could fire down into the city if the earthworks are tall enough.”

  “Indeed they could. And will
, if we let them.”

  “And, they hope to silence our guns by bombarding the main towers. This will give some relief to their men digging the trenches and advancing to mine the walls.”

  “This is what we suspected. Now that it is verified, instruct my officers there to intensify their fire and the harassment of the workers. We will use all our strength to stop—or at least, delay—this work.”

  “Yes, my Lord. That is all the information I could get. What shall we do with the body, and the prisoner who is still alive? We don’t have much space for corpses within these walls.”

  “No, indeed. We do not. Nor food and water. Give the dead body a day or two to become putrescent. Then load it into a catapult and fire it back into the camp of Bali Agha whence it came.”

  “And the young one, my lord?”

  “Mmm. My instinct is to kill him as well. We have little space or time for prisoners. But, he is just a boy.” Philippe mused for another moment. “Find someplace to lock him up. Have a guard bring him food and water once a day, but do not place him where we will need anyone to watch over him. We can’t spare the manpower. That will be all for now. I hope we will have more use for your services in the future. Au revoir.”

  Philippe stood on the ramparts of the fortress overlooking the harbors, as he did from time to time. He watched as the galley hove to and was secured to the wharf by the waiting knights on guard. Even by the dim light of the torches he could recognize the form of Antonio Bosio clambering over the side and down the ramp, followed by several uniformed knights he did not recognize. Behind the knights came about a dozen men wearing swords and civilian dress. They soon all merged into the waiting crowd of knights.